


Baking Circumstances

by FireGriffin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Chef AU, Gen, but without fake hetero-ness, chef!lock, kinda an origin story for how sherlock and john met
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-09-27 09:32:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9998141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FireGriffin/pseuds/FireGriffin
Summary: The chemistry of food fascinates Sherlock Holmes, and he's developed powers of taste beyond anything the world has ever seen. After quitting his job at Mycroft's restaurant, he sets out to prove he can make it on his own. But he doesn't want to open his own restaurant. He wants to be a consulting chef.





	1. A Brother's Request

Mycroft storms into the kitchen in his own way. The metal doors snap open and shut with hardly a moment’s pause in-between. There is no anger on his face, nor pounding footsteps. In fact, this man, dressed in an impeccable grey suit, strolls through the aisles of kitchen workers seamlessly. But it’s not the sound of footsteps that set you on edge. It’s the breeze that blows on the back of your arms as he walks by. The mild shadow that passes over your chopping board. Most of all, it’s the absolute silence all around you that drops into the room and plunges down into the core of your stomach the moment he walks in.   
  
Chopping and rustling and stirring sounds echo throughout the kitchen, along with the usual barks of what to do and where to be and where to add salt. But around young Sherlock Holmes, the relative and employee of Mr. Mycroft Holmes himself, people take turns staring out of the corner of their eye.  
  
Before Sherlock came -- around one year ago -- Mr. Holmes never so much as entered the restaurant. He had multiple locations around the city, so it was certainly understandable that this second-hand location of his ultra-successful restaurant brand, just under the shadow of much taller buildings and light commuter traffic, would go unvisited and unnoticed.  
  
After Sherlock joined the kitchen staff... well, you’ve stopped counting the number of visits. Each visit is quiet, but assumedly sharp. If the boy Sherlock didn’t act as cold as his older brother (or is he a father? You can’t tell), you’d feel sorry for him.  
  
Sherlock is the only one in the room who hasn’t noticed Mycroft’s arrival yet. As he cooks, he makes little flourishes and movements that feel very much like a dance. His lips move silently as he remembers the accumulation of cooking knowledge in his head, like he’s reading off the pages of a book. Then Mycroft Holmes steps up behind him.  
  
One second passes. He drizzles olive oil over the plate of a completed dish.  
  
Another second. Sherlock pauses, all the music in the air of his movements dying like a needle jabbed into a balloon. His eyes roll over the shadow being cast over him on the kitchen table .  
  
One more second to fit in a sigh, and Sherlock has turned around to face his brother. Mycroft leans in, taking advantage of his two inches extra height.  
  
He speaks in an icy whisper. “I didn’t want to bother you again, but it seems you weren’t at home.” On ‘home’, he purses his lips. “Please, answer me when I call or I’ll get a key made to fit your door.”  
  
Sherlock stares at him impassively. “I know.”  
  
“You didn’t know which college,” Mycroft breathes. “Harvard, for the record.”  
  
“I don’t-”  
  
“Oh, for Mother’s sake, Sherlock-- you know even I had to go through school before they’d let me out of their sight-”  
  
He stops short at the look on his younger brother’s face. “Do you really prefer me walking in here like this? They must talk.”  
  
Sherlock snaps out of his thoughts at the change in tone, latching onto the last few words he remembers hearing. “Got to get a break from you somewhere, big brother.”  
  
Mycroft frowns. “Listen. Email me, or Mother, or something. This whole ordeal... they’re pecking my eyes out over it. If you get a grip on yourself and take responsibility... promise me.”  
  
“I’ll email,” Sherlock mutters, sensing a way out of the conversation. They turn away from each-other like same-pull magnets.  
  
Sherlock resumes cooking, Mycroft leaves. The entire room seems to exhale. Everyone except our little protagonist, that is. Sherlock doesn’t get back into the flow of cooking all day. He works with the speed of a normal human being, all the while thinking about something else.


	2. Sherlock's Plan

When Sherlock leaves the kitchen for the night, he walks in a direction he’s never gone before. The cold air of London nights stinging his face is all that can keep him going. Although crowds of people brush shoulders and hurry by in every direction, Sherlock is alone. Here, among strangers, he finds he does his best thinking.

 

With hands pressed together and fingers pressed against his lips, he walks down street after street after street. Why do his parents  _ care _ so much? And how do they do it without actually caring about him? Every question is more of a complaint, running through his mind unanswered and irritating.

 

He turns down a street and the crowd thickens. Shop fronts glisten with pearly-white mannequins behind smudged glass. Sherlock hardly registers this. His brooding eyes press closed for a moment. Memories occupy his head.

 

It was stupid of him in some ways. They were dogmatic about it, and he  _ knew _ that. Maybe that was part of the reason he did it. He remembers his father sitting at the edge of his bed, looking into his younger self’s eyes (back before he’d quite finished with high school), and asking what college he planned to apply to. Sherlock had said he didn’t know. But he  _ did _ know. He wanted nothing to do with universities. Not for a year, not for five, and certainly not as a “back-up plan”.

To appease them, he talked about taking a “gap year”. It seemed a small lie at the time, if even that. Internships at restaurants, weekend-trips to neighboring countries, everything seemed to be flowing towards the perfect destination.

 

But then his year was up. They didn’t interfere at first. In fact, it wasn’t until the end of a second entire year that they pressed down hard on him. They must have gotten tired of his neverending “just-a-moment”s. When he announced he wouldn’t be going to college at  _ all _ , every source of funding was abruptly cut off. Even his own bank account. So he wiggled out of the situation a few silent, angry weeks later by saying the first thing that came into his head...  _ I’ll go to university if you allow a few more months. _ For what?  _ To... I’ve... never worked in a large kitchen. Like Mycroft’s. _ The comparison was taken literally.  _ So you’ll stay in London? _ No! He thought. As far from you as possible! But that wouldn’t  _ be _ possible. So he resigned.  _ Yes, I’ll stay in London. If Mycroft wants me, I’ll work there. _

 

All his dreams, shattered in a moment. Who could endure the company of their parents and older brother? Certainly not Sherlock Holmes. An entire city isn’t enough space to get away from them. Now that the “few months” have been stretched to his parents’ breaking point, there’s nothing for it. He won’t be able to pull another trick like this.

 

Sherlock hesitates in his aimless walking, catching the scent of freshly baked bread. His eyes snap into focus.  _ There _ , under a green awning. His eyes don’t follow his path of travel, and instantly he finds himself walking directly into a short blonde man in a warm overcoat. “Sorry,” the man grunts, taking a wide, distracted step away from him. Sherlock stands still, briefly registering what happened, then pushes his way out of the crowd with the same brisk distracted air. The captivating smell is coming from a little bakery just across the street. 

 

He can  _ smell _ that bread’s perfection. The crumb, the crust, the moist density... as he walks closer, the scent is diluted by dozens of other types of bready smells. A little sourdough there, some pumperknickel over there... but still, he can picture the original loaf of bread in his mind as if he were standing in front of it, as crisp and clear as the London night air.

 

_ Lestrade’s Bakery _ is written on a little chalkboard sign hanging beside the entrance. As he pushes open the doors, he’s dazzled by the sweet strawberry jam smell coming from the doughnuts and salty yeasty tang of pretzel dough rising somewhere in the back. There’s too many things to look at, and before he knows it, he’s debating whether to buy something for dinner.

 

“Just a minute,” says a vaguely young grey-haired man, sticking his head out around a corner. “I’ll be right there.”

 

Sherlock inhales once more, trying to distinguish between the sweet and savory breads without reading the labels. A stack of menus pokes up from underneath a basket on the front counter. He slides one out and stares at the page, but his mind has already slipped back into reviewing what happened that morning.  _ There must be a way to resolve the situation. _ Not necessarily one that pleases every person involved, but that at least keeps him out of university. He’s not opposed to attending later in life, perhaps a few years from now, but at this moment in his life he needs real experiences. Not the trite teacher-assigned projects he imagines flooding his life in college.

The hypothetical situation grows worse each time he examines it. Would his parents let him attend somewhere far away? Hardly. And would the monitoring stop? Of course not.  _ It’s lovely that you’re in university now, but you really must keep your grades up. You can’t tell me it’s none of my business, I’m paying for it! _ And  _ dear, what kind of extracurriculars are you part of? Are you sure you’re associating with the right people? Are you terribly certain you’ve chosen a lucrative degree program? _ There are no words to describe... 

 

A young-faced, grey-haired man walked up behind the counter with a cheerful grin. “Sorry about that, I was just taking stuff out of the oven.”

 

Well, the most glaring problem is his lack of control over his own money. But he’s old enough to open his own bank account, completely separate from everyone else’s. He could even send himself several checks, essentially transferring the money to the new account...

 

Sherlock licks his lips thoughtfully, looking up. The man is vaguely younger than Mycroft, and handsome, but not personally attractive. He has strong baker’s hands, and a little bit of flour on the tip of his chin. 

 

“Right...” He scans over the menu again, realizing he hadn’t taken in a word of it before. “What would you recommend for dinner?”

 

“Uh,” the man hesitates. “There’s nothing dinnery, really, but if you wanted something light...”

 

“A slice of quiche and some of that bread in the back would be lovely,” Sherlock interrupts, before his thoughts can wander away again.

 

The man sells him the food and he takes it, sitting down at one of the few wiry little tables in the vicinity. If he can just find a way to earn his own money... in a way Mother couldn’t interfere with easily... nor Mycroft...

 

“Excuse me,” says the man behind the counter. “We’re closing up in five minutes.”

 

Sherlock pauses in taking his little plastic fork out of its wrapping. “Are you the owner?”

 

“Yeah, name’s Greg Lestrade.”

 

“Lestrade,” Sherlock begins. “I’ll pay you an extra pound for each minute I stay. Twenty minutes, max.”

 

Lestrade frowns. “Why?”

 

“I don’t fancy you’d enjoy eating dinner in the cold, would you?” Sherlock retorts, opening the box with the quiche. “Besides. I’m a chef. Maybe you’d like to hear my feedback.”

 

“Twenty minutes,” Lestrade says at last, still frowning.

 

Sherlock settles in his seat, leaning forward to experience the quiche in front of him. First bite has an indescribably delicate, flaky crust. A little more salt than he would have used, but just right for most people. The eggs taste golden, probably free-range, and are fluffy like silk, but not too spongy. The ham is nothing more than chopped up store-bought slices, but the broccoli... 

 

Everything about the quiche passes through his mind in every instant, bringing with it a lifetime of food science and flavor theories. Where you or I would simply acknowledge whether the quiche was warm and filling, Sherlock’s mind takes him on a veritable journey. He does not have synesthesia, but his imagination has always connected certain flavors with certain colors, shapes, and patterns, like a modernist canvas on the tongue. Every ingredient becomes jotted down on a mental list, comparing and weighing the ratios of each substance. If Mozart could hear a symphony and write it down by memory of the sounds, Sherlock can taste a slice of quiche and write down a recipe by memory of the flavors.

 

This moment is what he’d been waiting for. His family troubles are swept to the hidden part of his mind, temporarily forgotten. “ _ Two _ pinches of salt,” he mutters aloud without knowing it.

 

Then comes the bread. A similar thing happens, but this time he closes his eyes. It’s just too good. He’ll have to learn  _ this _ recipe by heart. Already he can imagine exactly which kinds of soup would match perfectly with it.

 

“Five minutes, and you’re leaving.”

 

Sherlock opens his eyes. Lestrade is standing on the front side of the counter now, holding a polishing rag in one hand and a set of keys in the other.

 

“There are few loaves of bread I admire more than this one,” Sherlock replies, reaching in his pockets for the promised extra pounds. “Thank you.”

 

Lestrade accepts the money, furrowing his brow at him. “...what were you doing with your hands just then?”

 

“Hands?”

 

“You were... drawing shapes in the air, or something.”

 

Sherlock nods in recognition. “It helps me dissect the food in my mind.”

 

Clearly not understanding this explanation, Lestrade shrugs and wishes him a good night. Sherlock returns the words.

 

As he walks out into the now-even-colder night, the warmth of bread in his stomach can no longer distract him from the matter at hand. This time though, he doesn’t feel engulfed in worry. There’s a crevice of hope, lighting up his mind like a candle flickering in the attic.  _ They can’t reasonably stop me. They care too much about appearances.  _ With the plan formulating in his mind, sprung up from nowhere around the illumination of his candle of hope, he frowns a little less deeply on his way back to his flat.

 

_ That man was curious. Maybe others will be. I certainly know where he could improve. _ He’s seen business consultants talk with Mycroft on several occasions. Consultants, consultants... starting an entire restaurant on his own would be foolish without his family’s full financial support. But a freelancer, someone not stuck in one location...

 

Sherlock becomes so captivated by this idea that he walks two streets too far, and has to backtrack to reach his flat. Tonight, he doesn’t sleep. Anxiety mixed with excitement, hope mingled with fear-- all circling around one crucial thought.  _ I’m going to quit my job tomorrow. I’m going to be a consulting chef. _


	3. The Inspection

Sherlock mulls over his business plan for the millionth time, holding a freshly minted business license in one hand. Remarkable how the correct bribes can get you what you want, no questions asked. At least in the realm of business, people don’t feel obligated to involve themselves personally. To his left, a cellphone lies on a side table, turned off completely. His laptop hasn’t been touched in four days. Even Mycroft had to give up on contacting him - temporarily, no doubt - when Sherlock ignored his knocking on the door for an hour straight.  _ I’ve quit, _ he’d wanted to shout through the mailslot.  _ It’s over now. _

 

But it isn’t over. His kitchen still needs to be inspected before he can sell anything. No sensible amount of bribing could get him out of  _ that _ . So here he sits, fiddling with his business license, frowning absently at a dirty sock on the floor.

 

It must be admitted that Sherlock’s flat is not tidy. Not in any capability of the word. Stray projects and half-given-up food “experiments” are strewn over tabletops, chairs, and under couches. A half hour ago he attempted to make things more presentable. At least there’s a clear path to the kitchen now.

 

Do not misunderstand. Sherlock’s flat isn’t  _ entirely _ messy. There is one room in it that’s cleaner and tidier than a bathroom in the Queen’s palace, by Sherlock’s standards. One cannot be a chef, after all, without a proper workspace.

 

The doorbell rings. Sherlock sags into his chair, realizing just how tense he’s been. He leaps to his feet, beelines for the door, and swings it open politely.

 

“Are you Sherlock Holmes?” says a shortish man wearing a surprisingly casual, warm-looking jumper.

 

Sherlock sucks in a breath. “Yes.”

 

“I’m John Watson, the inspector.”

 

Sherlock finds himself standing there stiffly, at a loss for words. Thankfully, Mr. Watson doesn’t seem to notice. He merely holds out a hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

 

“Likewise,” he replies, shaking the outstretched hand. Suddenly he remembers where he is and what he’s doing - ! “Come in, please.”

 

Mr. Watson walks in with the warm amiable quality of someone who enjoys the company of other people. Sherlock watches him out of the corner of his eye as he shuts the door. He’s never understood people like that.

Mr. Watson is younger than he’d expected the health inspector to be. Blonde, short-haired, and drumming the fingers of his right hand on the side of his leg. His eyes roam over the flat with mild curiosity. Sherlock relaxes ever so slightly. So he hid his experiments well enough.

 

“The... kitchen’s this way,” Sherlock says with a swallow. Mr. Watson follows by his side, holding a clipboard to his chest with one arm.

 

“Alright then,” Mr. Watson says as he enters the kitchen. “This is going to be a simple, routine check. Everyone that cooks and sells food from home goes through it, nothing to worry about. Of course, you’re going to have to make a few changes, but it’s all in keeping with the health regulations.”

 

Sherlock nods.

 

The inspector starts by looking at his countertops and other surfaces. His expression is focused, but his eyebrows don’t furrow. He doesn’t even frown. As he moves throughout the kitchen, looking in various drawers and cupboards, his calm focus deteriorates. A frown twitches into being. The moment he opens the fridge, his eyes widen. The door is closed in an instant. He turns to face Sherlock, looking concerned.

 

“Your counters are all clean -- the sink is sparkling, even the floors -- but what in the name of all things  _ sacred _ is a  _ rat _ doing in your fridge?”

 

Sherlock feels his heart plummet into his shoes, then drop right through the floor and into the center of the earth. Although he hadn’t considered it before, the tone of Mr. Watson’s voice is so incriminating that he feels guilty.  _ Irrational stupid feeling... _

 

“Is that... against regulations?” he ventures. 

 

Mr. Watson stares at him in amazement. “It bloody well is!” An odd, almost angry smile twitches across the man’s face. He shakes his head, at a loss for words. “Mr. Holmes, I’m sorry... I can’t give you the green light when there are animals festering away in your refrigerator. Just- just out of curiosity, why  _ is  _ there a dead animal in there?” He blinks several times, in an oddly challenging way.

 

Sherlock feels a twinge of irritation. “It’s an experiment in storing techniques. I’ve fully decontaminated it, and I didn’t  _ kill _ it, if that’s what you’re thinking. I merely considered the dreadful state of the pet food industry, and how irritatingly simple it would be to manufacture meals to the full satisfaction of our animal friends.”

 

Mr. Watson stares at the floor for a moment, considering this. “ _ Pet food _ ,” he says at last.

 

Sherlock sighs. “I’ll admit it was an ill advised experiment. Snakes are hardly picky eaters. I really should have started with dogs.”

 

“Dog foo- look,  _ no _ , if you want to be cooking for humans,” there’s that ridiculous angry-smile again, “you’re going to have to stick with human-only food. These kinds of things are unacceptable. Have you even looked at the list?”

 

Sherlock hesitates. “A list of standard kitchen health guidelines.”

 

“ _ Yes _ .”

 

His pause is just long enough for Mr. Watson to pull a paper out from the bottom of his clipboard. “Here. Read up, and I’ll come by another time when you don’t have rats in your fridge.”

 

He swallows, taking the paper with a knot in his stomach.  _ Ridiculous guidelines. As if rat meat is inherently worse than beef or pork, out of nothing but human disgust responses... _

 

Mr. Watson isn’t making his way for the door. He hasn’t moved. Why are his eyes still on Sherlock? He glances up from the paper, slightly nervous.

 

“Sorry,” Mr. Watson says, breathing out as if to calm himself. He looks firmly down at his clipboard, scribbling something down. “Call me when you’re ready for a  _ real _ inspection. We’ll keep this time between ourselves, alright? Nothing to worry about. Just don’t put any more unusual ingredients in your pantry, and I think we’ll be fine.”

 

He rips off the corner of the page, holding out the phone number to Sherlock. He takes it, nervousness turning into confusion. “Thank you...”

 

Mr. Watson smiles quickly and heads for the door. “Well, just trying to help out a Holmes. You don’t happen to be related to that restaurant, do you?”

 

Sherlock grits his teeth. “N...yes.”

 

Mr. Watson’s smile comes back, and stays. They follow each other to the door. He opens it, and Mr. Watson pauses in the doorway. “We’re not usually meant to give second chances, just between you and me, but everything else in your kitchen was fine -- better than fine, really -- and a Holmes, too... just call me, okay?”

 

Sherlock furrows his brows.  _ Confusion _ . Why is this man being nice to him? After seeing one of his apparently distasteful experiments, no less? Perhaps there are good people in the world after all.

  
“Of course,” he replies. Then he gets to work on sanitizing the kitchen immediately. There is much work to be done. He can’t let himself get held back by a slightly-botched health inspection. Besides, he has a feeling Mycroft will be back knocking at the door again soon, and this time with a locksmith.


End file.
